Where the Detours Take Us
by Liz Bach
Summary: New summary: The search for their next gig leads Sam and Dean to Halvorston, IN. Once there, his latest bad dream lands Sam in a psychiatric facility facing the spirit of a dead patient, and poor Dean desperate to get him out.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This is just for fun.

* * *

Dean Winchester couldn't remember being more pissed in his life. And it wasn't just one thing that was pissing him off; it was the whole fucking shebang that was making his heart pound loud enough he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. His chest was tight, his biceps and fingers stiff from the death grip he had on the steering wheel. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were so tense he could barely move his head without moving his whole upper body. And the look in his eyes was murderous.

He was in a strange town – but when weren't they in a strange town – following the directions he'd gotten over the phone. For such a relatively small place, Halvorston, Indiana, sure took a long and winding time getting from one end to the other. _Haven't these hicks ever heard of a fucking grid?_ he wondered, drumming the fingers of his right hand as the light finally slipped from red to green. His tires squealed as he sped through the six-way intersection.

He'd been at the motel finishing unloading their stuff when his cell phone rang. He only half expected it to be Sam, because who else would it be? They hadn't been getting many calls for help lately, and he knew better than to hope it was their father. They'd not received one of John Winchester's cryptic messages in a couple weeks. As per usual lately, they'd had to search out their latest gig, as opposed to it finding them. According to the online version of the _Halvorston Truth_, something wicked was amiss in the cornfields of central Indiana. Something with sharp claws like scalpels was shredding livestock in the night. The town had never seen anything like it, and the police were baffled. The _Truth_ reporter speculated whether a human victim could be next.

It sounded more interesting than twiddling their thumbs, so they'd been driving all night and into the afternoon. Well, Dean had been driving all night and into the afternoon. Sam had been fitfully drifting in and out of sleep in the passenger's seat. At one point, his eyes had snapped open, but he didn't move. He just stared at the dashboard with his head leaning against his elbow, which he'd propped up against the door where it met the window, like a make-shift pillow.

Dean watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. Ozzy was in the tape deck, drowning out the monotone whir of the tires against the highway. He was waiting for Sam to move – to _breathe_ – but his brother remained still until the last chord of _Crazy Train_ faded out. Dean saw him swallow, like his throat was incredibly dry.

"Are you –" Dean started quietly, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Fine," Sam cut him off. The tone was so sharp that if Dean wasn't Dean, his feelings might have been hurt.

_Mr. Crowley_ was the next song on the tape, and Dean let it play. They both knew nothing Sam did or saw or felt was insignificant anymore. Dean hadn't figured out yet what criteria Sam used in determining whether or not to divulge the details of his nightmares. All Dean knew was that despite his best effort to stay awake as long as humanly possible, Sam still managed to dream quite a bit. And as more and more of his dreams came to frightening fruition, the stress and the strain were taking their toll on both brothers.

"This is it," Dean said, as if the grain silo and run-down barn they'd just passed were some kind of landmark. "Keep an eye out for someplace to stop."

Sam nodded, shifting his troubled gaze out the window.

Dean pursed his lips together and frowned, cocking his head lazily to the side. He could play this game till the cows came home, but it still annoyed the living shit out of him.

"Do you want to crash, or are you up for finding some grub first?"

"Can you drop me off at the library?" Sam finally looked at him with an _everything's-normal-don't-press-me_ kind of look in his eyes. It was complete bull shit, and Dean felt his blood pressure climbing higher.

"Why?"

"What do you mean _why_?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "What do you mean what do I mean? Why do we have to go to the library right now? Can't we check into a motel first? Eat something? I could probably sleep for a while. I have been driving your ass around for the past 15 hours."

Sam sat up straighter in his seat. "I didn't say _we_. You can drop me off, and I'll get a little research done. Find us a motel and then come get me after you've slept. You're obviously falling behind on your beauty rest." The last sentence thrown in there for effect.

"Wow, that's funny."

Sam looked out the passenger window again. There was clearly something going on that he didn't want to talk about. Dean grimaced. All the secrets were getting extremely irritating, but he didn't know how to make Sam spill.

So, like the wonderful brother he was, he'd found the library and dropped Sam off. Then he'd stopped for fast food, asking the cute brunette in the drive-thru to recommend a decent cheap motel. Opening the door to their room, the "cheap" part was immediately evident, although Dean thought "decent" was a stretch.

He'd flopped down on the bed closest to the door, flipped on the TV and ate his dinner/breakfast/lunch/early afternoon snack. He was starving; that was the last time they drove anywhere straight through without stopping for meals. He leaned back against the pillows and tossed his crumpled paper bag into the trash can next to the door. He didn't even take his shoes off.

When Dean woke up, it was still light out, but the shadows through the large picture window were growing long. He'd slept for three hours, and he imagined Sam was still contentedly tangled in microfiche, newspapers, and obscure books, trying to find a clue as to what they were dealing with. Dean was happy to let his brother bear the brunt of the research burden. Hell, Sam actually seemed to enjoy it. Dean supposed it probably felt a little like being back in school.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stretched. There was nothing like having your ass permanently fused to the bench seat of a car for 15 hours across the scenic Midwest to give you a few kinks and knots.

Standing, he decided he had time to unload their stuff from the car before he headed back to the library to collect Sam. He'd made it to the back seat and back with a bag in either hand when his cell phone rang. He dropped the bags onto the empty bed and flipped open the phone without even checking the caller ID.

"Dude, cool your jets. I'm on my way to get you right now," he said, pulling the door closed behind him. "So what'd you find out?"

There was a pregnant pause, and then a single word.

"Dean."

He stopped dead in his tracks, and nervous butterflies erupted in his stomach. It was Sam, all right, but something was wrong. Dean didn't need psychic abilities to figure that out.

"Sam? What's going on?"

There was a moment of silence before Sam answered. When he did, his voice was heavy, the words slow, as if he'd just woken up or was about to fall asleep, Dean couldn't decide which. "They're only allowing me one phone call."

_What the hell?_ Where was he, in jail? What kind of trouble could Sam possibly get into at a library that would land him in jail? The jail part Dean could picture. But he was at a freaking library, for Christ's sake!

"What did you do, hold up the librarian and ransack the book drop?" It was a nervous, humorless question.

Dean was in the car now, and when he turned the ignition, Alice in Chains blared out from the speakers. He fumbled with the knob to turn it down, then switched the phone to his left hand so he could shift and then steer with his right. He pulled up to the street before realizing he didn't know where he was going.

"Sam, where are you?"

"I'm…" His brother sounded confused and…something else. He sounded distressed. And frustrated. "I'm in some kind of…mental health facility."

"You're what?" Dean was sure he'd heard him correctly, but it didn't make any sense.

"They want to talk to you." Sam's voice was flat.

"Who?" Dean demanded. "What the fuck is going on? Sam?"

A man got on the phone then and spoke in a calm, patronizing tone of voice. He was Dr. Vincent Anderson from the Pluta Behavioral Health Center. He wanted to know who Dean was and what his relationship was to Sam Winchester. Dean told him he was Sam's brother, not that it was any of his fucking business.

Dean wanted to know who these people were, what the hell had happened, and where they got off holding his brother. But instead, he just demanded directions and warned them to keep their hands off his brother. Then he tore out of the motel parking lot. He couldn't remember being more pissed in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This is just for fun.

Thanks to those who are reading and enjoying this story. Double thanks to those of you who have reviewed.

* * *

The Pluta Behavioral Health Center was located in downtown Halvorston, next to the St. Matthew River and a defunct printing warehouse. It was a newer-looking building of red brick and limestone, but even from the outside it looked sterile and oppressive. The Center was large, with at least four, multi-floored wings that converged at a central, single-story main office structure. There was a small courtyard out front. It might have reminded Dean of a college dormitory, if he could have ignored the daunting steel bars across the windows. Given the bars, it more closely resembled a minimum security prison.

Try as he might – and he'd been trying the whole drive – he couldn't imagine what Sam could've done to land himself here.

Dean threw open the front door and approached the front desk. He'd managed to reign in his anger slightly, but the look in his eyes still made it perfectly clear he was not fucking around. "I'm Dean Winchester," he announced to the woman at the desk. "Where's my brother Sam?"

The woman didn't seem surprised or perturbed by his abrupt entrance. She actually took a moment to size him up. He was brash with his annoyingly young hairdo, jeans, and leather jacket. It was hard to imagine he could be responsible for himself, let alone for the young man who'd just come to them that afternoon. "Mr. Winchester," she said evenly. "Dr. Anderson would like to see you first."

_Dr. Anderson can go fuck himself_.

"I'm not interested in Dr. Anderson. I'm here to get my brother."

The woman was a nurse, dressed all in white. She was older, maybe in her fifties, with short gray hair that she tucked behind her ears. Dean noted the judgmental look in her eyes. "We were expecting you. Dr. Anderson would like to ask you some questions first and explain Sam's case."

"Sam doesn't have a case," Dean argued tensely. What was this, the Twilight Zone? He put both hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward. "Tell Dr. Anderson I'll deal with him after - and only after - I've seen my brother."

The woman just looked at him for a moment and shook her head slightly, as if she'd dealt with people like Dean before. It only infuriated him more. Nobody "handled" Dean Winchester.

_Whose ass am I going to have to kick…_Dean wondered menacingly, when a door behind the desk opened, and a man walked out.

He was tall and wide, about the same age as the nurse, with a thick blond mustache but less hair actually on top of his head. He was dressed in suit pants and white shirt with a blue paisley bowtie. He inappropriately reminded Dean of the guy on the side of a Pringles can. He held a portfolio in one hand, and there were two pens in his shirt pocket. When he looked at Dean, Dean immediately felt as if he was being evaluated.

"Mr. Winchester?" the man asked. It was Dr. Anderson, the prick.

"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded again.

"I'll take you to see him, but then we need to talk."

"Fine. Whatever," Dean acquiesced. He didn't have anything to say to Dr. Anderson. Obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. All he wanted to do was go get his brother and get out of this place. Sam could explain this mess in the car.

Dr. Anderson frowned at him for a moment. Then he turned to open the door he'd just come through and motioned for Dean to follow him into an interior hallway.

The hall was off-white with flat fluorescent lamps overhead. The light gray linoleum floor was spotless, and a three-inch tan line ran down the middle and around several corners. It seemed to be leading the way to wherever it was they were headed.

Dr. Anderson led him through a large lounge with several long tables, like those in a school cafeteria. There were round tables, as well, with diner-type chairs around them. A large television stood dark and silent against one wall. In front of it was a small carpet and a sofa with two matching upholstered chairs. Along an adjacent wall, there was a ping-pong table with no ball or paddles. There was also a large rack full of magazines and paperbacks. Dean felt like he'd just walked into a Ken Kesey novel.

He couldn't get over how _clean_ everything looked. In this room, natural light from the late-afternoon sun streamed in through the long windows. There were no curtains to block the view out to the empty courtyard. Another thing Dean noticed was the unnatural quiet, disturbed only by the sound of their shoes against the cold floor. He saw no signs of any patients.

As if reading his mind, Dr. Anderson started to speak. "Right now all our patients are in their rooms for some solitude before dinner. We give them half an hour before meal time every night. We are primarily a residential facility, although we do offer a few outpatient services. We offer the option of single- or double-occupancy rooms. It all depends on what the family can afford and the level of care their loved ones require."

Was this guy for real? "Look, you don't have to give me the schpiel. My brother isn't staying here, so I could care less about the nature of the accommodations."

They entered another long hallway, at the head of which was a large nurses' station. The nurse on duty looked up from her computer when she heard voices and footsteps coming around the corner. She was young and attractive, with her blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing the same white uniform as Nurse Ratched at the front desk, but on her it looked much softer. She smiled as they approached.

"Hello, Dr. Anderson," she said, then turned almost shyly to Dean.

Under any other circumstances, he could see himself stopping to have a conversation with this woman. The insecure ones were always easiest to impress.

"Molly, this is Dean Winchester. He's here to see Sam, our new patient."

Dean shot Anderson a cold glare. "He's not a patient. You can't keep him here against his will."

The doctor frowned again, as if he knew something Dean didn't, and Dean resisted the urge to beat the frown right off his condescending face.

"Molly, please take Mr. Winchester to see his brother, and when he's done, bring him back to my office."

The smile had faded slightly from Molly's lips at the mention of their new patient. She nodded shortly and came around to the front of the desk.

"Mr. Winchester, perhaps I should prepare you," Dr. Anderson started as an afterthought, setting his portfolio down on the counter.

Well, that sounded ominous. "Prepare me for what?"

"Your brother was extremely agitated when he came to us. He was delusional and admitted to having frequent hallucinations."

Dean furrowed his brow in disbelief. He looked back and forth from Molly to Anderson, then down the hall. Just where the hell were they keeping Sam, and what was all this crap about delusions and hallucinations?

"I thought it best to immediately begin a full battery of evaluations," Anderson continued clinically. "But after a few exercises, he was asking to make a phone call, and when we refused, he became somewhat violent."

The very fact that Dean was in a psychiatric institution listening to this asshole spin his yarn about Sam coming to them all hopped up and violent…well, it made absolutely no sense. The hum of the fluorescent lighting rang distractingly in Dean's ears as he struggled to process the doctor's words.

"What did you do to him?"

"We're keeping him isolated for his safety. He's been given a sedative, so you'll have to be brief. After you've spoken with him, we can talk about his treatment options."

To Dean, there really was only one option. Sam was leaving with him, and they were getting out of this town. The whole situation was surreal and bizarre. Dean fleetingly wondered if it was possible he was still asleep.

"I'll take you to him," Molly said quietly. Dean had almost forgotten she was there. He was uncharacteristically silent as she led him down the hall.

Apparently, Sam was just behind door number sixty-three. Dean cringed inwardly. The door was wide and obviously thick, with a square window at eye level. Before he had a chance to look in, Molly had unlocked and swung the door open. She stepped aside so Dean could enter.

What he saw made his stomach lurch. The room was completely white, and the whole thing – from the walls, to the floor, even the back of the door – was covered with a smooth foam padding. They had Sam locked up in a fucking padded cell!

And there was his brother, huddled in a far corner of the mid-sized room. Sam had been taller than Dean since he was seventeen and Dean turned twenty-one, but right then, he looked small with his knees drawn up towards his chest. The jeans, t-shirt, and jacket Dean had last seen him wearing were gone, replaced by a pair of Center-issue, soft, gray cotton pants and a matching cotton shirt. His feet were bare, and they'd taken his watch away, in case he might swallow it or bludgeon himself with it, or Dean didn't know what. His head was bent forward and Dean could see that his long hair was an even bigger mess than usual. He rested both elbows on his knees and clutched a handful of chestnut-colored hair in either fist. He didn't look up when the door opened.

"Sam," Molly said gently, as if she was afraid just the sound of her voice might set him off. "You've got a visitor."

At that, Sam slowly lifted his head. It seemed to take a moment for him to focus on the figure standing in the door.

"Thank God," he whispered.

"Leave us alone," Dean said in a low voice, not turning to look at Molly. He was literally shaking, and he didn't want her to see.

"Mr. Winchester –"

"I said, leave me alone with him," Dean repeated.

She hesitated for a moment more before closing the door.

Dean immediately moved to his brother's side and put his hands on Sam's shoulders, inspecting him for damage. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with him, aside from the fact that he was even here in the first place and he could barely keep his eyes open. He managed a small smile, and his relief at Dean's arrival was palpable.

Dean's hands moved down to Sam's biceps and squeezed. He examined his brother's face closely.

"Dude, I dropped you off at the _library_," he said. The _what the hell happened_ was implied.

Sam looked up at him, his eyelids heavy. "They drugged me," he murmured unnecessarily. "I hadn't really anticipated that."

It wasn't the explanation Dean was looking for, but he didn't know what to say. After a few seconds of silence, Sam leaned his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes and just sat like that for a moment, breathing audibly. Then his features suddenly crumbled, and he brought both hands to his face.

Dean knew it was the drugs mixed with relief and the fact that Sam hadn't really slept in days, but it still broke his heart and sparked rage in him at the same time. What were they doing in this place? "Jesus, Sammy," he breathed, allowing himself a moment of weakness. He ran a hand over Sam's disheveled brown hair, let it rest briefly on the side of his kid brother's face. The moment lasted only a few seconds, thenSam regained his composure, and Dean was all business again.

"Okay," he said urgently. "I know you're tired, but you have to tell me what's going on. How did you get here?"

"I had a dream," Sam said, as if that explained everything.

Dean rolled his eyes in frustration. "I'm gonna need more than that, Dr. King."

Sam drew himself up straighter and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. He glanced at the door to make sure they were really alone.

"Can they hear us?" he asked warily.

Dean shook his head. "I don't think so."

Sam nodded, then said, "Alvin MacGruder."

Dean bowed his head, closed his eyes, and started counting towards ten. He was at seven when Sam finally continued, "Something bad is going on here, Dean."

Dean met his younger brother's unsteady gaze and held it. "Oh, really, Columbo? You mean besides the fact that we're sitting in a nut house, and you're doped up in a padded room?"

"In my dream," Sam went on, ignoring Dean'sanxious sarcasm, his voice slightly steadier than he felt, "I saw this place. _This _place And I watched a man…screaming…and a shadow moved over him." He licked his lips. "And I swear, Dean, he died of fright."

"Of fright?" Dean had a feeling Sam's dream had nothing to do with their original reason for coming to Halvorston. "What was he afraid of?"

"Alvin MacGruder," Sam said again. "At the library. I looked up the history of the Pluta Behavioral Health Center. It was renovated back in '95, but before that, it was a prison asylum. It's where the state sent its criminally insane when they were deemed too unstable for a regular correction facility. Alvin MacGruder was an inmate - a patient - for five years before he died of an undetermined cause. After his death, they decided to restructure the place."

"And what? Now this guy's back for something?"

"Yes," Sam nodded. "He's back, and he's killing patients. There have been fifteen sudden deaths here over the past ten years."

Dean bit his bottom lip. Boy, this day just kept getting better and better.

"So what? Why is he killing them?"

"Well, that's what I'm here to find out."

Dean stared at his brother, realization starting to dawn. He was trying to stay calm, but so help him if this was all part of some stupid plan Sam had managed to concoct without even talking to him about it first.

"Do not tell me you faked being crazy and got yourself thrown in here so you could chase after some nut job ghost," he growled, his fingers closing tighter around Sam's biceps.

"I didn't have to fake anything, Dean," Sam hissed, struggling weakly against his older brother's grip. "All I told them was that I have dreams, and they come true, and I hunt things that go bump in the night. I told them I see and kill monsters and things that are already dead." There was a sudden bitterness in his voice that Dean hadn't been expecting. "Think about it, man. Sounds pretty crazy to me."

Once again, Dean found himself at a disturbing loss for something to say. For years they'd hunted and kept their dirty little secrets; the only people who would ever believe them were the people they'd saved.

Even though his brother was sitting right in front of him, and had been beside him for months, something about the look in Sam's eyes lately and the tone of his voice made Dean feel as if Sam were constantly moving farther and farther away. As if Stanford hadn't been far enough. At least at Stanford, there was always the possibility (and eventually the reality) of physically going and getting Sam if he had to.

Wherever it was he was heading now, though, once Sam was gone, Dean wasn't so confident he would be able to get him back. In fact, Dean wasn't just not confident; he was starting to be slightly afraid. And fear, although healthy and sometimes life-saving, was not an emotion that sat well with Dean. This fear that he had, and this despair that seemed to be slowly consuming his brother, was not going to save any lives. In time, if they couldn't move past it, it would destroy them.

They had more immediate issues to deal with now, though. He had to admit, this thing definitely sounded like something they needed to investigate, but it baffled him why Sam never said a word to him about it until now. How long ago had he had this particular dream? And how long had he been planning this out? What had he thought he was going to do if they hadn't let him make a phone call? What had he supposed Dean would think when he went to the library and couldn't find him? Sam was smarter than this. There had to be something he wasn't telling Dean.

"They want to keep me here."

Dean shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked at his brother and frowned. What was done was done. They would have to find this MacGruder guy and figure out how to stop him. But no fucking way was he going to let Sam stay here by himself.

"Sam, I wouldn't leave you here even if there wasn't a dead psychopath running around killing people. Look at yourself! You're barely coherent as it is now. We'll have to find another way. As long as they think you're crazy, they're just going to keep pumping you full of drugs."

"Let me worry about that," Sam insisted. "I'll handle it."

"Right. You'll handle it." Dean rolled his eyes in frustration. "You think they don't have ways of making sure patients ingest their medication? And what am I supposed to do while you're in here battling the forces of evil? Sit around the motel like a fucking pylon?"

"No, I need you to work the staff."

That got Dean's attention. "What do you mean?"

"The staff," Sam slurred. His head dropped forward. He was slowly losing his battle against the sedative.

"Stay with me, Sam." Dean cupped Sam's chin and lifted his head up. He looked his brother hard in the eyes, willing him to stay lucid long enough to explain Dean's part in all this. "What about the staff?"

"Somebody knows something." Sam lowered his voice. "Most of them were here when MacGruder died. I need you to find out as much as you can about what happened."

"I thought you already did the research. What else do you think I'm going to find out?"

"All I know is what I've already told you, Dean. I didn't have time to figure out the rest."

Okay, fine. Great. Dean could do some digging. And he'd just have to trust that Sam could take care of himself. But something still nagged at him.

"Hey, McMurphy, why didn't you just tell me about this genius little plan of yours?"

Sam's eyelids slid shut. "Would you have let me do it?"

"Maybe." _No_.

Sam smiled grimly. "Well, there you go."

The drug they'd given him finally won out, and Sam slumped forward. Dean moved to sit beside his brother and pulled Sam close so his head rested on Dean's shoulder. He gazed nervously up at the padded walls around them. He didn't like this at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This is just for fun.

Thanks again for the nice reviews!

* * *

"Mildly psychotic."

Sam opened one eye. It was all he could manage at the moment. The rest of his body felt like lead, and his left upper-arm was throbbing.

"But don't worry. They wouldn't have put you in here if they thought either of us was a danger to anyone other than ourselves." There was a pause. Then dryly, "That's how you can tell they care."

Sam knew he was in a mental hospital. He remembered vividly the dream that had brought him there. Alvin MacGruder. The Pluta Behavioral Center. A man screaming, enveloped in shadow, frightened to death. He remembered waking up in the car next to Dean, and Ozzy Osborne and that awesome riff from _Crazy Train_. He remembered the librarian giving him directions. No, it isn't far; yes, all those deaths are very strange; no, you won't find much information up in the stacks, but let me tell you what I've heard.

He remembered considering telling Dean what he'd seen in his sleep, and he remembered deciding against it in part because he just couldn't say it out loud. But he couldn't ignore it; he'd learned that lesson with Jess. Whatever the thing was that was killing cows in the night would just have to wait. Clearly, they were being drawn to Halvorston for another reason. He'd stopped Max from killing Alice and Dean, so surely he could stop this. He had to.

"That guy with you," the voice continued. "The one with the spikey hair? He seemed worried." Another pause. Then genuinely curious, "What are you doing here?"

He should have called Dean before he checked himself in. It had all happened much faster and more harshly than he had anticipated. He'd spouted off the first thing that came to him, which coincidentally happened to be the truth. The look the intake nurse had given him was enough to make him go numb. He didn't know why he'd initially thought she would take some convincing. Turned out she didn't need any convincing at all. Turned out Sam Winchester was honestly, certifiably crazy.

His other eye opened, and he was staring at a white paneled ceiling. The last thing he knew, he'd been in a small room with Dean. He'd done his best to explain what was going on, and he hoped Dean had understood.

Before that, he remembered the nurse telling him to wait just a moment, and she left him sitting alone in a small office. It was a generic desk where they must have interviewed many new patients and/or their families, trying to get a grasp of what kind of assistance they would need. There were several trays stacked on the desk, and they were full of different colored forms. There was a computer and a phone with only three buttons.

He glanced up at the walls and saw pictures of the Center itself. There were two framed blueprints of the building at its inception. There was only one large photo that appeared to have been taken prior to the 1995 renovations. The remaining photos and renderings were all of the new facility. Out the window, he could see clear across the courtyard and into what looked like an activity room. He could barely make out the people inside.

When the door opened again, Sam had expected the nurse to be back. Instead, there were three men, two of whom were close to his size and wearing all white with staff identification badges hanging from the hems of their shirts. The other man was dressed in a suit and bowtie and carried a clipboard in one hand.

Immediately apprehensive, Sam stood. As soon as he did, the two men in white each grabbed one of his arms and held him firmly, as if they had expected him to put up a struggle. Which he did, slightly, until the man with the clipboard spoke.

He introduced himself as Dr. Vincent Anderson, the head psychiatrist. He was glad Sam had the presence of mind to recognize his tenuous mental state, and he was here to help him make a full recovery. A memory of Dr. Ellicott from the Roosevelt Asylum flashed in Sam's mind.

It was then that Sam demanded to make a phone call. Even as he asked, he knew it was too late. His cell phone was in his jacket pocket, but the two orderlies had his arms trapped, and they weren't letting go. Sam explained that he hadn't told his family he was coming here, and he needed to call his brother so he could help make the arrangements for him to stay.

The doctor frowned and seemed to consider what Sam had said. Then he asserted no phone call was necessary. Sam insisted it was, and he pulled hard against the men restraining his arms. It was at that moment that chaos erupted in the room. Sam swore he'd done nothing to warrant being shoved unceremoniously to the floor and stripped of his jacket. The doctor moved in more swiftly than Sam would have imagined him capable of moving. He pushed up Sam's sleeve and inserted a long needle into his shoulder. Whatever he injected burned going in, and Sam grunted at the pain. He should've called Dean before checking himself in.

The men started to haul Sam back to his feet, but Sam was not going to take this treatment without a fight. He knew he had to call Dean. He kicked out with his leg and caught one of his captors hard in the thigh. The man cried out and bent over to clutch at his leg, releasing his hold on Sam's arm. Sam took a swing at the other guy, landing a solid left to the guy's chin. Sam scanned the room for a clear escape route, but the stunned men impeded his route to the door, and there was no making it through the solid plate window behind the desk, even if the drug in his system hadn't been starting to take effect. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him before he could decide what to do. The man he had kicked regained his equilibrium and easily brought Sam down. He held Sam's face roughly, cheek-down against the floor.

"I was afraid of this," the doctor said, shaking his head.

_Afraid of what?_ Sam wondered blearily, but he never had a chance to ask.

Samassumed he'dpassed out, because the next thing he knew, he was slumped on the floor of a medium-sized room. He was lying on the floor, which seemed to be covered in a thick padding. When he pushed himself up to a sitting position in the corner, he discovered the walls were padded, as well.

No sooner had he sat up, then the door opened, and the good doctor walked in. He had a cell phone in his hand, but Sam noticed it wasn't his.

"One phone call," the doctor said, handing him the phone. "Can you dial?"

Sam nodded, the fog in his mind still thick. He struggled to remember the number. Then he heard Dean's voice, and Sam struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone a complete sentence. All he managed to get out at first was his brother's name.

The apprehension in Dean's voice was immediately obvious. Sam needed to explain, but Dr. Anderson was staring down at him.

"They're only allowing me one phone call," Sam managed to say.

The apprehension in Dean's voice gave way to fear, and Sam hoped he was telling his brother something useful, but he could barely hear his own words as they slurred slowly from his lips. Dr. Anderson abruptly held out a hand for the phone, and Sam obeyed, handing it over. He looked up wearily and saw the doctor's lips moving, but couldn't understand anything he said. Then the doctor was shoving the phone into his pocket and then bending down towards Sam. He grabbed Sam's wrist, pulling his arm out, and inserted another needle. This one didn't sting.

The next time he woke up, he was still sitting in the padded room, wedged into a corner, his hands in his hair. He heard a woman's voice telling him he had a visitor, and when he looked up, there was Dean looking royally pissed off.

_He's mad at me_, was Sam's initial thought. Then, _Or maybe he's mad at them._ At any rate, a mad Dean was better than no Dean.He was there, and Sam was instantly relieved.

"You know, you're kind of hard to talk to."

Sam's body was starting to thaw. He tested a hand, flexing his fingers. Then he slowly brought his arm up and pinched his nose between his eyes. After a moment, he turned his head to the side, looking at the room for the first time. It was almost creepy, a cross between a hospital room and every motel he and his brother had ever stayed in. The walls were an antiseptic white. There were no pictures, but one window that looked out at the river. The two beds were twins, parallel to each other, with a shelf-like table between them. There were adjustable rails on both beds, but only the rails on Sam's bed had been raised into place. No mirrors, no lamps, three fluorescent lights overhead. There were two dressers, two desks, two chairs, and a door that led to a bathroom with a shower, but no tub. The floor throughout the room was tile. There were two closets, and they were both closed.

Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, leaning back against his elbows. Finally, he noticed the man sitting in an armchair in the corner between the window and Sam's bed.

"Who-" he started, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who are you?"

The man eyed him skeptically, scratching an elbow. He crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back into the cushion. He looked young, around Dean's age or maybe slightly older. He was dressed in the same gray cotton get-up as Sam, but he had socks and slip-on tennis shoes on his feet. His brown hair was combed neatly, and it was slightly wet, as if he'd just showered. Even from a distance, he smelled like soap. He looked normal, not mildly psychotic.

"I'm your roommate," the man said. He lifted his chin up and scratched at his neck, all the while keeping an eye on Sam. "And I'm not stupid."

Sam's face conveyed his confusion. He wasn't sure if it was some kind of after-effect of the drug wearing off, or if this guy really wasn't making sense.

"Who said you were stupid?" he asked. Sam sat all the way up in the bed now, a hand moving to his left shoulder, which was bruised and tender.

"They all think we're stupid, you know." The man pushed himself up from the chair and walked to the window. He pushed back a thin, white curtain and looked out. "They think we don't know what's going on here."

Sam rubbed at his sore shoulder absently, looking with narrowed eyes at his roommate. "What do you mean, what's going on?" Was it possible this guy knew something about MacGruder?

For a long moment, the man didn't shift his gaze from the window. He seemed to be studying something outside near the river. Then he let the curtain slide closed and slowly turned to Sam. "What are you doing here?" he asked again.

Sam hesitated for a moment. He wasn't sure what he was being asked. "I…uh…I checked myself in. I'm here for help," he said lamely.

The man gave him a _boy are you full of shit_ look and frowned. "Look. Nobody checks themselves in here." He moved closer to Sam then, walked over to the bed and lifted Sam's hand from where he'd been massaging his shoulder. "Nobody asks for this shit. And man, it's only going to get worse for you. I saw the way Anderson looked at you. He knows as well as we do that you're not crazy. But now that you're here, and now that they know you know something, he's not going to let you leave."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked cautiously. He couldn't tell if these were the crazy ramblings of some headcase who'd been locked up for too long, or if Sam really had let something slip at some point. The drugs had finally worked themselves through his system, and he knew he was going to have to figure out how to get around having to take any more medication. Dean was right. Of course they had ways of forcing patients to take their drugs. Namely, thugs and needles. When the man didn't answer, another thought asserted itself into Sam's mind. "What do you mean it's only going to get worse? _What's_ going to get worse?"

The man still refused to answer. He dropped Sam's hand and went back to the window. "I _know_ what you're doing here," he said, finally, pushing the curtain back again.

"MacGruder?" Sam said softly, taking a chance.

The man nodded. "MacGruder. I'll give you any help that I can."

"Why would you want to help me?" Years of hunting had made Sam suspicious, if not downright distrustful, when it came to anyone other than his brother or father. And lately, he wasn't even sure if he could trust their dad anymore.

"Because I'm tired of watching him kill them. Because who's to say I won't be next?"

Sam's heart started to pound. "Have you seen MacGruder take them?"

The man turned and looked at Sam like he was an idiot. "Boy, somebody's really got his head up his ass."

Sam shook his head in confusion. What the hell was this guy getting at?

"MacGruder doesn't take them. He doesn't have to. Not when someone _gives_ them to him."

"What? Who?" But as soon as he said it, Sam knew.

The man smiled bleakly.

Sam sighed and wished Dean was there.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This is just for fun.

* * *

Dean sat in the cell listening to his brother breathe for several long minutes before Molly knocked on the door and apologetically told him Dr. Anderson was waiting to talk to him.

_This ought to be good,_ he thought. He looked down at the top of Sam's head and felt a pang of renewed apprehension. He didn't want to leave his brother here. Especially not like this. His whole life he and their father had done their best to try and equip the youngest member of their family with the ability to defend and protect himself. And they'd done a good job, Dean thought with a flash of pride. Sam Winchester was no coward, and he was no pussy. At times – this very moment came to mind – he could be a pig-headed dumb-ass, but it certainly wasn't because Sam couldn't handle himself.

But this wasn't their usual turf, and debilitating drugs weren't usually involved. The minute he left Sam alone in this room, Dean felt like he'd be leaving him completely vulnerable.

Well, maybe not _completely_ vulnerable. Anyone who could see things that were going to happen in the future could never really be completely vulnerable, could they? And Sam had seen what was coming, even if he refused like a stubborn asshole to let his brother in on it. But then again, in the sense that Sam seemed so determined to suffer this one through in silence, without Dean around to back him up, maybe there was legitimate cause to worry that seeing the future could very well turn out to be Sam's ultimate vulnerability. That was a sobering thought.

"Here, I'll take him," Molly said reassuringly. She gently put her hands on Sam's shoulders and shifted him so Dean could get up. His knees cracked loudly as he stood.

"Jesus, I'm getting old," Dean muttered.

Molly smiled up at him, a little sadly. "Aren't we all?"

Dean gave her a tight smile back. He watched the young nurse turn back to his brother and gently ease him to the floor. In reality, Sam dwarfed this girl, but right then he looked young and fragile under her ministrations. It made Dean feel slightly better to know that she would be there; maybe there were others like her. Maybe the hospital wasn't corrupt, and maybe Sam was off the mark about there being any shady circumstances surrounding MacGruder's death. Maybe it really was just the spirit of a hocked-off lunatic they were dealing with here.

And then again, maybe pigs flew, Impalas grew on trees, and Sam ever managed to dream about something that wasn't dire.

"They'll be coming to move him to his room as soon as we leave," Molly explained. She knelt awkwardly next to Sam for a moment, looking at him. She reached out a hand and softly touched his shoulder. Dean noticed then that it was starting to bruise.

Molly stood abruptly and flushed, a nervous smile on her face. "Don't worry," she said a little breathlessly. "We'll take really good care of him. This is really a top-notch facility. Don't believe any of the rumors you hear floating around."

Dean frowned, giving Sam one last glance before following Molly into the hall. She closed the door behind them and started walking, not looking back to make sure Dean was keeping up.

"What rumors?" Dean asked after they'd been walking in silence for a few moments.

Molly looked startled, as if she'd forgotten he was even next to her. "What?"

"Back there in the room, you said not to believe the rumors." Dean smiled ingenuously. "We're from out of town. We're just here because our Aunt Linda lives over in Indy and she recommended we look into this place. Had I known Sam was going to check himself in, I would've found out a little more about it first." Well, that last part was true, anyway. He scratched an eyebrow with his thumb. "So we haven't heard any of the rumors. But I take it they're kind of bad?"

Dean could see her mentally back-pedaling. "Oh," she said, nervous again, like she suspected she had just screwed up. "Oh. Well. There's really no need for you to be concerned. They're just rumors. It's a small town. You know how people just like something to talk about."

"Yeah," Dean agreed in a tone that made it clear he wasn't convinced. "Then I guess I won't worry."

"Good." Molly stopped in front of a closed door and heaved a heavy sigh. She looked like she was happy to be leaving him there. "Well, here it is. Like I said, Sam will be just fine here." She put a hand on his arm and squeezed. "You're doing the right thing."

Dean wasn't so sure, but he thanked her and watched her walk off quickly, her head down and her fingers clasped behind her back.

Dean heaved a heavy sigh of his own and knocked on Anderson's door. The door immediately opened, and Dr. Anderson motioned him in.

"Have a seat, Mr. Winchester."

Dean sat, crossing a leg over a knee and draping one arm behind the back of the chair. "C'mon, doc, you can call me Dean."

Dr. Anderson took a seat behind his desk and placed his hands in his lap. He gave Dean an even stare. "Dean, then," he said after a pause.

"So tell me," Dean began. "What is it exactly that you think is wrong with my brother?" His tone was dubious, but a part of him genuinely needed to know.

The doctor didn't blink. "Dean. I'm sure you're aware your brother is a very sick young man."

Dean bit down on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything. He wasn't sure how long he was going to be able to listen to this crap.

"Of course we'll be keeping him under observation, but my immediate impression from what I was able to learn prior to his violent episode…"

Dean held back a snort. Sam didn't have violent episodes. He kicked ass. He saved lives. He watched his brother's back. There was a dangerous difference.

"…is brief psychotic disorder. Possibly paranoid schizophrenia."

Dean's only reaction was a deepening of his frown. There was something heart-breaking about the way Anderson – or anyone who was lucky enough to live not knowing about the things that the Winchesters dealt with on a daily basis – could jump to such a conclusion. Dean wasn't in the business for cookies and medals, but it crushed something inside of him to have it thrown in his face that his family could be so patently misunderstood.

"And you feel confident making this assessment based solely on what you were able to learn prior to his so-called 'violent episode,'" Dean said quietly, nodding slowly, never breaking eye contact with the doctor.

"It's not a diagnosis, Dean, just a preliminary opinion. We'll need more time with him to determine the true extent of his psychosis." The doctor stared back, and Dean thought he caught a glimpse of something dark flash in his eyes.

"You know," Dean said. "We don't have insurance. I'm not sure how we're going to pay for Sam's institutionalization." He knew they had a job to do, and Sam was convinced he knew the best way to do it, but at that moment, he couldn't help but look for any excuse to have to pull his brother out of there and come up with a Plan B.

"Dean…" The doctor sat up straighter. He was speaking slowly, like Dean was a child or maybe just stupid. "I am bound by my professional responsibility and ethical duty to make sure your brother receives the care that he needs. The Center is a private institution. There are resources available for special cases such as Sam's. If money is an issue, I will make it a personal priority to secure the necessary funding for his stay."

_I just bet you will._

"Tell me, Dean," the doctor continued. "Does your family have a history of mental illness?"

Until Sam had hatched this fucked-up plan, Dean hadn't thought so.

"No, we don't," he answered.

"Do you know how long your brother has been experiencing these paranoid delusions?"

"No, I don't."

Anderson eyed him coolly for a silent beat. "Well. I assure you, we'll take care of him." He leaned back in his seat. "I'm sure we all want what's best for Sam."

"Right," Dean agreed tersely. "I'm sure we all do."

Anderson's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward over the desk, his forearms resting on top of a file folder, his hands clasped tightly.

"Of course, we'll begin treatment immediately."

"Treatment?"

"Why, yes! That's why he's here, isn't it?"

Dean didn't blink. "And what will this treatment entail?"

Anderson laced his fingers together. "I think a combination of medication and therapy will work wonders for Sam. In fact, I think in no time at all, your brother will be a completely new man."

"Before I consent to this," Dean continued after a pause, "I want to know if there's any truth to these rumors."

Anderson feigned confusion. "To which rumors are you referring, Dean?"

"Now, doc, there's no need to be coy," Dean smiled caustically.

The corners of Anderson's mouth twitched up the slightest bit under his heavy moustache. He continued to stare Dean down. The look was almost sinister. But before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. Dean kept his eyes on the doctor.

At Anderson's authoritative "Come," the door opened and Molly took a step so she was halfway in and halfway outside the room.

"Dr. Anderson, they're getting Mr. Winchester settled in his room, and I thought…Mr. Winchester…might want to see him before visiting hours are over."

"Thank you, Molly." Anderson stood. "You should go with Molly now, Dean. Say your goodbyes to your brother."

The need for more information and the need to see Sam relatively safe and sound in non-padded quarters warred for only a few seconds before Dean followed Molly out into the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This is just for fun.

* * *

Molly avoided looking at Dean as she led him through the Center. "There are four wings," she explained, walking quickly through the quiet halls. "One side is reserved for women, and the other side is all men. Then each wing on either side supports a different level of care. Your brother is in the southern wing. It's mostly people who need more help than their families can give them, but who don't necessarily need round-the-clock attention. For the most part, they are able to function on a daily basis with the help of medication and therapy. The northern wings are reserved for very serious cases. Nonfunctioning patients, suicidal patients, those who are thought to be in highly significant danger. Or thought to be _a_ highly significant danger. The main section of the facility is for outpatient services and hospital administration. It's also where the recreation rooms are and the cafeteria. Most of the patients are having dinner right now."

They were on an elevator now, and Molly pressed the button for the fourth floor. "Sam's still sleeping, so you won't really be able to talk to him." She watched the numbers above the door light up in slow succession. "I mean, you can talk to him. But he won't answer, and he probably won't hear you. The doctor gave him some pretty heavy stuff." She frowned, aware of Dean's eyes on her. He'd been watching her closely the whole time they'd been walking, as if he was trying to figure something out just by looking at her.

"Heavy stuff, huh?" Dean said thoughtfully.

"Yeah." She leaned back against the elevator wall. "I guess Sam was in pretty bad shape when he got here. Dr. Anderson said he had to be restrained. He practically attacked a couple orderlies."

"Yeah, that sounds like Sam," Dean muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "A total hard-ass. Nice to know it's because he's insane, not just a dick."

Molly stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment. She'd almost mistaken his sarcasm for true bitterness. Almost.

The elevator binged their arrival at the fourth floor. When the door opened, Molly stepped out ahead of Dean. They were at the end of a hallway with a window facing the river to their left and the rest of the men's southern wing to their right. Dean exited the elevator and waited for Molly to continue, but instead, she stopped in front of the window, her back to him.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and was about to say something when Molly turned. She kept her head down, but her eyes looked up at him through her bangs.

"What is he doing here?" Her voice was hushed, but urgent.

Dean shook his head slightly and knit his brow. "Come again?"

Molly leaned slightly to look around him, and Dean instinctively glanced back at the empty hall as well. The patients from this wing, with the exception of Sam, were all down at dinner. They were alone in the hallway.

"Why is he here?" she asked insistently.

Dean put his hands on her arms and pushed her into the corner next to the window. He felt a rush of adrenaline.

"What's going on here?" he hissed.

She looked up at him with fear in her eyes, shrinking back from his touch.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Dean insisted, easing up on his grip. "But you have to tell me what's going on. Tell me about the rumors."

"What are you, crazy?" she whispered. "If Dr. Anderson finds out I'm talking to you like this, I'll lose my job. I'm already on shaky enough ground as it is."

"Then why _are_ you talking to me?"

She hesitated again, glancing out the window behind her down to the river.

"If you know something, Molly, you have to tell me." Dean attempted his best Sam impression, complete with the quiet, intense tone of voice and an honorable approximation of the dopey eyes. When Molly continued to hesitate, Dean wondered if it was the dimples. That had to be it. Sam and his stupid dimples. "Molly..." Dean let go of her arms and took a step back. "Clearly you want to tell me. Otherwise you wouldn't have started. I can help you. Sam and I can. But we need to know exactly what's going on."

Molly shook her head doubtfully. "What I know could get me into a lot of trouble. There are things happening here that you don't understand-"

"Then make me understand." Dean hated the plaintive edge in his voice, but he was getting desperate. "Please. He's my brother. I need you to tell me what you know, or I can't protect him. Hell, I might not even be able to protect him if I do know what's going on, but at least we'll know what he's up against."

She looked up and searched Dean's clear green eyes. He looked as worried as he sounded. She didn't know who these people were, but something about them suggested she could trust them, that she had to trust them. If anyone was ever going to believe her, they would. She'd known it the moment she'd first touched Sam. She'd _felt_ it in him.

She licked her lips and glanced one last time down the hall to make sure they were truly alone. Then she put a hand on Dean's elbow and drew him close to her, as far into the corner as they could get. "People die here, Dean, who aren't supposed to die," she whispered.

"How?"

She flushed and looked down at the river. "Dr. Anderson."

"What? He kills them?"

"Not exactly. It's more like, he lets them be killed. He chooses who dies. I don't completely understand it…it's like he has some sort of arrangement."

"An arrangement? With whom?"

"With…" She stopped and closed her eyes, bringing trembling fingers to her lips. "With a ghost," she said simply. "I know that's stupid, and impossible, right? But the patients have told me things, and I've overheard other staff people talking about things that have happened here in the past. And at night, if I'm alone too long in a room or a hallway, I feel so afraid. Like I can feel eyes on the back of my neck. But when I turn around, there's nobody there. Or…or there's a shadow in a dark place."

She was speaking quickly now, trying to get it all out before she lost her nerve, or before Dean could tell her she belonged here more than the patients she tended to did.

"There are terrible rumors about this place. What you hear in town is nothing compared to what the workers say. About back when this place was an asylum for the criminally insane. The things they did to the patients back then… Dr. Anderson wasn't the head of the Center then, but he was here. And he had something to do with the death of a patient.

"I guess…I guess to him it was like some kind of mission. Like a crusade. This patient had done something terrible. Most of the patients had done something terrible to end up here. And according to some of the employees, Dr. Anderson made it his personal business to see that they paid for their crimes."

Dean absorbed what she was saying. So Anderson had had a hand in MacGruder's death. He wondered about the details of their so-called "arrangement."

"Listen," Dean whispered. "My brother is not insane."

"But Dr. Anderson said –"

"Do you really think you can believe a word Dr. Anderson says?" Dean interrupted in frustration. "Sam's fine. In fact, he's probably one of the most level-headed people in here. I need you to trust me, okay?"

Molly nodded as he continued to speak. "I need you to look out for Sam. Can you do that?" She kept nodding. "Who dispenses the medication?"

"The nurse on duty. For the most part, it would be me. For his routine meds. I'm usually not here until the eleven o'clock shift, which means I would administer his meds in the mornings before I left. But Dr. Anderson is his doctor. He can give Sam something whenever he thinks it's necessary."

They would just have to hope Dr. Anderson didn't see a reason to go above and beyond on the drug front. "Okay. Well, the stuff he'd supposed to take in the mornings, don't give it to him. Just make sure Anderson thinks he's taking it."

"But-"

"I'm telling you, Sam's fine. The only way he's going to stay that way is if you make sure he doesn't have to take any more drugs."

"Okay. Okay, yes. I'll figure something out."

"Good."

"But I –" She stopped suddenly, looking up at him. There was real fear in her eyes.

Dean searched her face for some sign of whatever it was she was holding back. "What?"

She clasped her hands together at her waist and wrung her fingers nervously. Her posture radiated indecision. "N-nothing," she stammered. "Nothing. I'll do my best. It's just…I don't…" She swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

Dean shook his head. "It doesn't matter, does it? Just trust me, we're here to help you." He put his hands back on her shoulders and could feel her trembling. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, when are visiting hours?"

"They're between eight AM and eight PM."

That left a disturbingly long period of time that Sam would be on his own.

"When I leave, is there any way you can get me back into the building tonight?"

"Huh? Well…I don't know…" She looked down at the floor, as if it might magically reveal a viable plan for sneaking Dean in after visiting hours.

"Think, Molly."

"I'm trying!" After a moment, her eyes lit up. "The back door off the kitchen, where they take deliveries. Most of the kitchen staff leave around 8:30, and they prop that door open so people can go in and out. The chef is always the last to go, and if I distract him, you can sneak in and hide out somewhere in the kitchen until he's gone. Once he leaves, I'll come find you and get you up to Sam's room."

Dean spared her a tight smile. "Good girl."

"What are you going to do once you're back in?"

"Well, first I'm going to talk to my brother. Will he be awake by then?"

"He should be, yes."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Good."

"And after that?" she pressed.

"After that I'm going to break into Anderson's office."

Molly looked aghast. "You're going to what? Where? But if he - you'll never-"

"Look, relax. He'll never know I was there."

Molly looked unconvinced.

"What'd I say?" Dean prompted.

Her expression didn't change. "Trust you?"

"Exactly." Dean grinned for real this time. "Dude, I'm the boy at this kind of shit."


	6. Chapter 6

See Chapters 1-5 for disclaimer. It hasn't changed.

I have to say thank you again to my reviewers. Knowing someone's actually reading and enjoying the story makes it so much fun to write. I would typically finish a story before posting so I would be sure it made sense. But I'm writing as I go along here, so please forgive me any plot blunders. For instance, Sam probably wouldn't have given his real name now that I think about it. But oh well. Just try to suspend your disbelief further than you already were, I guess. :)

This is a short chapter, but I just wanted to get it out there.

* * *

It took Sam exactly five minutes and twelve seconds of watching his new "roommate" meticulously apply half a bottle of lotion to every inch of his exposed skin to realize he didn't actually have a plan for getting out of here.

It had been hours – going on days – since he'd last eaten, and he was feeling shaky from the combination of hunger, fatigue, and the last traces of whatever it had been Dr. Anderson had injected him with. He wasn't sure where Dean was. The last he'd seen him, they'd been in that room together, Dean berating him for being such an idiot, and Sam groggily trying to explain without explaining.

"So who was the guy?"

Sam looked up to find his roommate studying him, the bottle of lotion still in his hand.

"Which guy?"

"Wow," the man said, flipping the bottle lid shut with a loud snap. He slammed the bottle down on the table so loudly that it made Sam jump. "Holy crap!" the man continued, standing up and throwing his hands into the air. He was smiling excitedly. "Oh my God! Just listen to you! That voice! Those eyes! The stupid questions!"

"Excuse me?" Sam interrupted. He had no clue what this guy was raving about.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry." The guy seemed to be trying to reign himself in. He sat back down in the arm chair next to the window, pulling his feet up underneath him. He started to scratch at the inside of his wrist. "I don't mean to get so excited. It's just- Well, we've been waiting so long."

_Waiting for what?_ Sam wondered, not sure he really wanted to know.

"It's so obviously you," the man continued. "I knew the minute they brought you in here."

"What's so obviously me?" Sam asked cautiously.

The man's expression shifted with an alarming suddenness from elation to regret. "You're so obviously the next one who's going to die."

Sam just stared at his companion, his blood running cold. As if having these dreams – premonitions – wasn't bad enough, random outside confirmation of the contents of said dreams had to be one of the worst feelings Sam could remember ever having felt. And Sam had felt some pretty bad things over the course of his young life.

"Why would you say that?" Sam asked, realizing too late that he was sounding a little pathetic.

The man leveraged himself up with both hands on the arms of the chair, extricating his legs out from beneath him. He set both feet on the ground and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

"I know you think you're brave and smarter than Dr. Anderson – which it's possible you are," the man paused to snort derisively. "But he has resources that you can't combat."

"What resources?" As much as he was usually prepared to put in the long hours doing research when it meant getting the job done and living to tell – or not tell – the tale, it was testing Sam's patience being spoon-fed tiny morsels of information by this creepy guy.

"Well, let's see…the orderlies, the drugs, you, the ghost-"

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam moved to the edge of his bed and sat facing his roommate. "Tell me what you know about MacGruder."

"Well, I know he _kills_ people," the man said pointedly.

"And you said Anderson gives people to him?" Sam pressed. "What, like a sacrifice?"

The man looked up towards the ceiling, as if deep in thought. "Sacrifice?" he mulled, scratching at the back of his neck. "Hmm. Well, yeah, I suppose so. Or like a bribe. Like blood money. Protection."

Sam frowned. "Protection?"

"Well, yeah."

"Protection against what?"

The man looked at Sam again. "I'm pretty sure you'll find out."

Sam waited a moment, hoping the man would say more. When he didn't, Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes in frustration. Nothing like having to rely on a cryptic nutcase for pertinent information.

He tried a different tack, "And you think Anderson's going to try to hand me over? Do you know when?"

"Soon enough. Oh, and he won't have to try. When Anderson's done with you, you'll practically hand yourself over. You'll want MacGruder to come!"

"And why me?" Sam continued. "It's not like anyone knew I would show up here. _I_ didn't even know I would show up here. He couldn't have been expecting me."

The man stared at Sam with an unreadable look in his eyes. "I have a feeling there are a lot of people expecting you, Sam. You just haven't accepted that yet."

Sam stared back. "What are you talking about?"

The man smacked both hands onto either side of his head and wiped them down until his fingers were splayed across his cheeks. "Oh my God! There you go again!" he exclaimed. "Why do you ask so many questions you already know the answers to?"

Sam realized his mouth was hanging open slightly, and he closed it. Despite all indications otherwise, Sam reminded himself there was no way this guy knew anything about him. Since what had happened to Jessica, the only person who _really_ knew Sam Winchester was Sam Winchester himself. It was just better that way.

"Since you know so much," Sam said, a little annoyed at this point, "How does MacGruder kill them? The fifteen dead patients were all said to have died from heart attacks."

"I'm no doctor, but that sounds like it could be true. But it was what brought on the heart attacks that really killed them."

"And what brought on the heart attacks?" _Exactly what am I facing here?_

"Fear," the man said simply.

Sam sighed. Fantastic. Further evidence of his nightmare being more than that. "Dean's going to love this," he muttered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Dean?" the man repeated. "Is that your buddy from earlier? The one with the…"

"…with the spikey hair," Sam nodded distractedly, their voices overlapping. "Yeah. He's my brother."

The man scooted to the edge of the chair. "He was here after they brought you in. He and the nurse hustled in here all hush-hush. Like I'm stupid. Like I don't know what's going on."

"He was here? Did he say anything?"

"Just that-"

Suddenly, the door opened, and both Sam and his roommate looked up quickly to see who it was. Two men in white entered the room. Sam recognized them as the same two who had overpowered him earlier during his intake interview. He eyed them warily.

"Dr. Anderson is waiting for you," one of the men said. "You need to come with us."

"Where?" Sam asked, standing and putting the bed between him and their uninvited guests.

"Dr. Anderson would like to begin treatment right away," the other man explained, moving towards the bed.

"What kind of treatment are we talking about?" He hadn't had time to figure out how he was going to avoid the medication.

"Just a therapy session," the second man clarified, and Sam allowed himself a brief moment of relief. "I'm sure you'll find it extremely…liberating."

Sam glanced over at the man who was still sitting in the arm chair. He didn't make a sound, just watched Sam with a mixed expression of curiosity and commiseration.

"Look," one of the orderlies said sternly. "Are you coming quietly, or do you need us to drag you down there?"

"Dragging won't be necessary," Sam conceded flippantly. He rounded the corner of the bed, and the orderly closest to him shoved a pair of shoes against his chest.

"Put them on."

Sam did as he was told and followed them into the quiet hall.


End file.
